Mired in Mahler
by oldmule
Summary: A short Valentine's tale with a slightly bizarre title.
1. Chapter 1

**This is a small offering for Valentines as a thank you to _r4ven3_, _Chantale23_ and _wolfdrum_ who have all been particularly kind in their comments.**

**Set around early S5. **

* * *

"You're in love with her."

"Why does everyone suddenly claim an intimate knowledge of my feelings?"

"So I'm not the only one who's said it?"

Harry's expression brokered no further discussion. But Malcolm had already gone too far to try retracting a thing.

"When you go home at night, what do you do, Harry?"

Cold eyes stared back, "Sign your transfer to Kazakhstan."

Malcolm smiled.

"You drink whiskey, continue to work and wallow in Mahler."

Harry stood, and true to form began to pour two large glasses of scotch.

"Your point….?"

"Versus Ruth? A life? Love?"

There was a beat before Harry turned back to him.

"Is it not a little rich, Malcolm... coming from you?"

"Absolutely. I make cocoa for my mother and listen to the shipping forecast."

Harry handed him the glass with a smile.

"But I know that if I was lucky enough for Ruth to look at me the way she looks at you, then I would not be sitting back and –"

"Wallowing in Mahler."

"Or sipping cocoa," Malcolm added.

Leaning back in his chair, Harry drank deeply, savouring the warm, clinging liquid.

"It's not that easy," he finally conceded.

"Rubbish. Stopping Al Queda isn't easy. Asking Ruth out is …"

"Considerably harder," muttered Harry.

"For god's sake, it's not like you're a shrinking violet. Besides which if you can't ask her this week, when can you?!"

An eyebrow raised slightly behind the now empty crystal glass.

Abandoning his drink and somewhat exasperated, Malcolm stood and made his way to the door.

"Do something Harry. Say something," he paused momentarily, "Before she sees sense and finds a life with someone else."

The door slid shut behind him.

There was a thought. ... Someone else.

It wasn't like she hadn't looked. Hadn't been willing. Hadn't craved a relationship, a life beyond the grid.

But now the thought of it provoked something within him.

Maybe it was time.

* * *

Ruth sipped her tea. It was early. Her fingers curled around the warm china mug as she waited for the temperamental central heating to kick in and warm the house. By the time it had, she pondered, she'd already be on her way to work.

The doorbell shocked her from her weary reverie and a splash of the tea scorched the back of her hand. Rubbing it and muttering, she swung open the door accusingly.

A young man stood on her doorstep.

She looked at him and he looked at her.

His hand suddenly shot upwards, proffering a single red rose.

"Happy Valentine's Day."

Ruth stared at him.

"I don't know you," she said simply.

"It's not from me," he replied, the rose still in front of face, waiting to be received.

"Then who's it from?"

He shrugged.

Ruth raised a perplexed eyebrow, silently reiterating the question.

"From someone who likes you?" he offered.

"But you don't know who?"

"Just found it, along with your address and twenty quid."

His arm began to sag slightly.

"Do you want it then, or not?"

Finally, slowly Ruth reached out and gently grasped the paper covered stem.

"Maybe whoever it is thought you would work it out," he said.

And with that he turned and walked away down her path.


	2. Chapter 2

**Short one for now.**

* * *

Ruth sat and stared at the rose.

No card, nothing that tied it to a florist or a shop; simply a red, thorn free rose, wrapped in a single piece of pale pink tissue paper.

She had already spread the paper on the kitchen table, smoothing it out. Now she held it up to the light. Nothing.

It bothered her.

She felt not pleasure but agitation.

Someone had gone to the rather unorthodox trouble of having it delivered and yet left no idea who they were.

Her mind ranged through the possibilities … but she was struggling.

Three names were all she could muster.

Zafar Younis, although alphabetically lagging, was her first suspicion. Cheeky, charming and tongue in cheek … it could be him.

Adam Carter, as with Zaf, possibly even in cahoots with Zaf … it might be him.

Ruth paused, temporarily distracted by the word 'cahoots'. Not a word often used in Five circles but perfectly fit for purpose and with a certain old world charm to it. She vowed to use it more often.

Greg Bailey, she thought, pulling herself back to the task in hand: Greg Bailey, an old flame from her early years at University. She had recently bumped into him whilst attending a recital. They'd gone for a drink, no more, nothing promised, nothing expected… less likely to be him but still a possibility worthy of consideration.

And that was it.

If it was Greg then no doubt the rose was all it appeared to be and a phone call may follow in the next day or two.

If either Zaf or Adam, or both, then the flower was not quite as it seemed and there would undoubtedly be a test to accompany it. A test to find the truth.

And as predictable as that might be, there was no way that Ruth could resist the challenge of a test.

She stood up, carefully folded the tissue paper, slid it into her pocket and turned to the door.

There was one other of course, but as much as she wanted it to be him, she knew it was not. It couldn't be.

Only as she was about to leave did she remember the abandoned rose, which lay marooned on the kitchen table.

When the front door finally slammed shut, the red bud stood revived in a small, narrow cut glass vase in the middle of the living room.


	3. Chapter 3

**My apologies for slow updates**

* * *

The morning passed incredibly slowly – for both of them.

Ruth buried herself in a particularly bumper pack of intel which had found its way onto her desk.

Harry sat in the singularly most dull JIC meeting that he had ever known and proceeded to dream himself elsewhere.

Staring into his empty office, and not for the first time, Ruth wished that it would be him.

But why would it be? He had never said anything, never done anything, never suggested anything … other than that smile ...that smile which in her imagination suggested so very much.

Let's face it, from what little she knew of him, despite his past affairs, he was not known as a great romantic: suggesting to Adam to buy chocolates for Fiona, it all smacked of cluelessness and convenience, not passion.

Perhaps he'd never needed to woo, or to charm them: he'd just looked at them with that fiery gaze, those molten eyes. And that had been enough.

It was enough for her.

"You okay, Ruth?" Jo was pulling on her coat.

"Hmm?" said a still distracted Ruth.

"You look miles away."

"Daydreaming," she admitted quietly,

"Good one, or bad one?" Jo grinned, as she headed for the pods.

"An unlikely one," said Ruth smiling back before burying herself in another file.

As the doors whooshed closed and the muffled click of Jo's heels retreated down the corridor, Ruth lay the file aside. Her hand slid to her coat pocket before she made her way to the deserted forgery suite, the folded pink paper clasped between her fingers.

* * *

Malcolm had been out.

He didn't often go out. Most of the time his mother made him sandwiches for lunch. In the past he'd always eaten them with Colin, they'd swapped on occasion. It wasn't quite the same now, but somehow to stop felt like a denial.

But for the past few days his mother had been a little under the weather. He'd left her in bed with a thermos, a hot water bottle and Radio Four.

And so he walked back onto the grid clutching a warm, lidded cardboard pot of pea and ham soup: an indulgence he anticipated he would relish for the sheer unadulterated variety of it.

"You should have said," he announced, carefully placing the pot on his desk.

Ruth spun around, quickly masking the fluster she felt.

"I just nipped out but whatever it is leave it with me, as soon as I've eaten this I'll take a look."

He glanced across the room, nodding at the piece of pale pink tissue that was spread under the UV scanner.

"It's fine," said Ruth, casually turning away, placing her body between him and the paper, "I'm nearly done."

She flicked on the light and leant closer, staring at what was suddenly revealed before her. The blank paper no longer blank. She felt breath against her cheek and turned, almost colliding with Malcolm who was leaning over her shoulder unable to ignore his curiosity.

He glanced up from the illuminated writing, eyebrows raised in question.

"Don't say anything to the others, please, Malcolm." Ruth pleaded, her wide, surprised eyes drawn back once more to the paper.

Malcolm nodded even though she wash't looking,

"So, who's Richard?" he asked.


	4. Chapter 4

"Not the foggiest."

Malcolm and Ruth both stood, perplexed.

"Not making it very easy, is he … this Richard?" said Malcolm eventually.

In truth he was possibly more confused than Ruth. When he had seen the tissue paper and consequently guessed from it, and Ruth's rather skittish behaviour, that it was linked in all probability with Valentine's Day, he was sure it must have been Harry who had been behind it.

"Well, I suppose an unknown suitor is possibly even more intriguing," he said, as much as to himself as to Ruth.

But Ruth didn't want an unknown suitor. She wanted the one it wasn't.

"You may be intrigued, Malcolm, but I have got far too much to do to be playing ridiculous games."

"You mean you'll happily walk away without ever solving this particular puzzle? You'll be happy to let it beat you?"

She raised her eyebrows in defiance and then slowly reached for the paper and let it fall helplessly into the nearest wastepaper bin.

"Have you done a heat or elemental scan?" Malcolm called after her as she walked away.

"No."

"Shall I do one?" he shouted, as she disappeared out of the door.

"Yes."

He knew her well enough.

* * *

Harry had been listening to the head of GCHQ drone on unerringly for the last thirty one minutes.

By minute seven he had lapsed off to thoughts of the chaotic and clumsy arrival of a young, naïve analyst seconded from GCHQ.

By minute twenty two he had a slightly glazed, faraway look in the depth of his eyes as he conjured up the blueness of hers.

By minute thirty one the merest of smiles was pulling at his lips.

"What do you think about it, Harry?"

Harry turned to look at the PM.

"I think GCHQ have identified the problem sufficiently, Prime Minister, however I believe we must act on that intel now and as soon as we are able take in Shafiq for questioning."

A man for multi skilling was Harry Pearce.

* * *

Ruth sifted through papers – hundreds of papers. She scanned them, eyes fixed to the screen in search of the one small detail that would help her identify the location of their missing Al Qaeda suspect, Shafiq.

Richard ... she wondered. Who the hell was Richard? Greg Bailey it certainly wasn't, old flame or not. Zaf, or Adam were a 'no' too.

Unless …. Was it a joke? Their idea of a joke? Was the joke that she had had Valentine's 'dick'?

No. No, she thought, the blush already rising on her cheek. They were jokers but not in that way. She began berating herself for the thought and as she did she saw the detail: the three words buried in an Arabic paragraph. She had found the location.

As she called Jo and informed her of the new intel, she glanced at her mobile - a text, from Malcolm.

_Come see what I've found._

* * *

"I can't see anything," said Ruth holding up the still blank tissue paper to the ceiling light.

"Not there …" said a rather smug Malcolm, "… here."

He nodded to the screen in front of him.

"I wasn't getting anything and was about to throw it back into the bin but then this showed up."

Ruth stared at the scan of the paper. Beneath where the word 'Richard' had been writ large under the UV light was a tiny line of numbers. Ruth instinctively leant closer as Malcolm enlarged the image.

**_v.i.85_**

"Mean anything?" asked Malcolm.

She shook her head, her mind immediately sifting the possibilities as she had the documents earlier.

"Date?" he offered, "Birthday. January 5th, 85?"

"If that's the case, I've got a twenty one year old buying me roses. I think not."

"Date you met?"

"No," she said, frown etched in place as she worked well ahead of him.

"Ordinance survey? Grid reference?" he ventured, "… Location reference?"

But this time Ruth did not reply.

Malcolm looked up at her and saw the frown melt away. He knew that look. They all knew that look – they saw it often enough.

"Richard," she whispered, "… I know who he is."

Her hand reached down gently pushing against Malcolm's arm, encouraging him to give up the screen.

He stood as she slid into the seat.

"Well..?" he asked impatiently, "Who is he?"

She smiled.

"The grandson of Edward the third."


	5. Chapter 5

"Thanks Jo."

Harry disconnected the call and slid the phone back into his inside pocket.

It was moments like this that he had learned to enjoy.

"My team have found and apprehended Shafiq."

There was more than one member of the JIC council whose face betrayed their surprise but it was the PM who spoke first.

"You appear to have arrested him before you even began the search, even for you Harry, that's impressive."

Harry remained impassive and simply nodded.

"I suspect it's thanks, in no small part, to one of our best whom you poached from us, Harry" sniped the interminably dull head of GCHQ.

"Yes, she is one of the best, John," he conceded, "But she's certainly not yours."

* * *

"Richard the Second?"

"Yes, Richard the Second," repeated Ruth.

"You've lost me," Malcolm muttered, watching her fingers tapping at the keyboard.

"Five, one, eighty five," said Ruth.

"Five, one, eighty five?" he repeated.

The page loaded.

"Ahhhh!"

Malcolm had finally understood.

_The Complete Works of Shakespeare._

"Act five, scene 1, line eighty five," smiled Ruth.

"Hang on," he said suddenly, "Why Richard the Second? It could just as easily be Richard the Third, couldn't it?"

"No. Did it to death at school. The scene's very short, never gets as far as line eighty five."

As she spoke she scrolled purposefully through the text, until finally she found it; read and re read it; got lost in it.

_Then wither he goes, thither let me go._

"Oh… " said Malcolm, peering over her shoulder, "It looks like you've got yourself an invite."

"But to where?" murmured Ruth.

"Not to mention when?" Malcolm added.

"And with whom?"


	6. Chapter 6

**Many apologies for the tardiness of my updates. I shall attempt to do more soon before the craziness of life and work become all consuming. Here is a short teaser for now.**

* * *

The rose was a rose.

But yet as Ruth stared at it she knew that within it lay the answer to the invitation.

There was barely no light left in her living room but she did not notice, there was enough of a glow to see the flower, the enigma before her and that was all she needed.

"Then wither he goes, thither let me go," she breathed softly.

She lifted her edition of the Complete Works from her lap but this time she couldn't read it and now she noticed the lack of light. Flicking on the nearest lamp and for the umpteenth time that evening, she reread Act 5, Scene 1.

_And must we be divided? Must we part?_

_Ay, hand from hand, my love, and heart from heart. _

How strange was the choice. In a scene of parting, of being torn apart: Queen and King riven away one from the other; in this scene he, whoever 'he' was, had chosen on Valentine's Day to find a line of promise.

How hard it must be, to be so parted, she thought, with an involuntary shiver.

She tore herself from such imaginings and turned back to the text. There was one other thing that had caught her interest and peaked her curiosity: it came earlier.

_But soft, but see, or rather do not see, _

_My fair rose wither: yet look up, behold, _

_That you in pity may dissolve to dew, _

_And wash him fresh again with true-love tears. _

The words nagged at her, had etched themselves somewhere in her brain and would not let her be and yet she could not make sufficient sense of them.

And so she made a cup of tea.


	7. Chapter 7

Mahler swept around him, enclosed him, wrapped him and his glass in liquid warmth.

Scotch and sweeping strings in the dark.

He didn't need light because his vision was filled with an image of her: an image in which she always shone; bright and vivid and glorious. Soon he would rise from his chair, climb the stairs and stare at the ceiling.

But until then he could dream.

* * *

It was during Ruth's fourth cup of tea, somewhere between Rockall and Bailey and a west 6 to gale 8 wind, that Ruth understood.

Cup abandoned, she ran back into the living room, tore the rose from its vase and hurtled into the kitchen.

"But soft, but see, or rather do not see, my fair rose wither," she repeated, the excitement coating her voice as she ignited the smallest gas ring on the cooker. She scrabbled around the kitchen filling a pan with water and searching for something … not sure what …something.

"A-ha!"

Pan warming, water heating, she carefully lay down the something – a small, ingrained baking tray: a history of tarts, melted cheese and frozen chips etched upon it. An awkward square upon the round pan, an unlikely lid.

And then she turned to the rose. Delicately, carefully she eased its outer petals away: gently plucking them free.

She tested the tray, heated by the steam of the water beneath and tenderly lay the six petals down upon it. Eyes wide and hand hovering she kept vigil as, one by one, the edges curled, the smooth, full, moist petals drying and withering as they shrank into the tray.

Her hand shot out, extinguishing the flame, pulling the tray from its steaming stand and letting the petals slide gently free onto the worktop. Ruth stared at them.

"Yet look up, behold, that you in pity may dissolve to dew. And wash him fresh again with true-love tears," she said to no one but herself and what remained of the plucked rose and its emaciated petals.

And then it was back to rifling. Through drawers and cupboards: behind trays and pot noodles. Finally finding what she was looking for – a straw.

Glass of water, salt cellar and straw. Laid out on the counter, expectant.

"I could poke myself in the eye with you," she muttered to the straw, "but this might be easier." She ground a little of the salt into the water, took up the straw and stirred one into the other.

"Perhaps not true-love tears, but I've shed enough of those." Her fingertip covering the top of the straw, she pulled it from the water, the pressure holding a few drops in place until it hovered over a gasping, dried petal. One by one she covered each with a bead of the salt water. And then she waited, bent close, breath held, unblinking.

After ten seconds, there was nothing.

After thirty, nothing.

After forty five, her tired eyes were stinging and she needed to blink.

After a minute, she straightened a little to ease her back.

After a minute and a half there was still nothing.

It was after two minutes that she saw it.

A series of thin, delicate, undulating lines, appearing ghostlike across four of the six petals.

6pm

17.02

2K Bridge

She had her invitation.


	8. Chapter 8

It was 5pm on the 17th February.

T minus one hour.

Ruth had a great deal to do. But her mind was not upon it. And yet with the dexterity and clarity that was hers and hers alone, she managed to separate a small part of her considerable brain and do what had to be done whilst running through every conceivable possibility of who her thoughtful, educated, romantic, elusive, rose giver might be.

Zaf, and or Adam, had long since been disregarded: too considered and intricate for them. Past boyfriends, recent or far flung had failed to make the grade.

This was someone new. Someone who had the imagination and the skill to ensnare her in the puzzle and who had faith in her ability to find the solution.

She stared into the glass office opposite. The seat behind the desk was empty.

It was now 5.30. Her heart beat a little faster and it seemed excrutiatingly hot on the grid.

"Just nipping out," she mumbled to Malcolm as she passed him midway to the pods.

"Did you find where and when?" he called quietly.

"Now," she nodded, glancing at her watch, "well, any minute."

Malcolm smiled encouragingly. "Good luck." He watched her nervously scuttle off before his eyes slid to the empty office beyond.

"Jo," he called, "Harry around?"

"In with the HS and the Syrians," she answered, head bent over her desk.

Malcolm hoped not.

He very much hoped not.

It was a cold wind. A brutally cold wind. Her face felt numb, her fingers curled in her gloves trying to borrow some heat from her palms but there was none to be had.

She leant out over the rail of the Millennium Bridge, gazing at the river.

It was 6pm.

She didn't want to look, she didn't want to anticipate, she didn't want to wish. But she did.

"Hello, Ruth"


	9. Chapter 9

For all her teenage and adult life, Ruth had hated her name. It was dull, characterless and in her opinion, a little old fashioned: she had never wanted to be represented as any of those things.

Over the last few years, however, she wouldn't have chosen to be called anything else.

There was something about the way he said it. Something about the relish and promise and warmth he gave it, that she loved.

And that was how he said it now.

"Hi," she said, before she even turned from the river, "I thought you were in with the Home Secretary?"

"There's only so much rhetoric a man can take, Ruth," he said, a small smile gracing the edges of his lips.

"Politicians," she said simply.

"Heaven protect us."

And now he smiled fully and her heart which had set itself an uncomfortably speedy rhythm, began to hammer louder.

"Fancied some fresh air?" he asked, curiously.

That threw her. Fresh air? No, she didn't fancy freezing to death out here, she had an assignation. But if he didn't know that…?

"I … I have a meeting," she said.

"Oh," he looked surprised, "Anything important?"

"No," she lied, "not really."

"I'll leave you to it, then."

A heart that beat so loudly, ceased its anticipation and plunged from great height to great depth in an instant.

He turned away.

She watched his back as he continued on … waiting. But she was waiting for nothing. Nothing happened. Apart from Harry Pearce walking away.

Ruth turned back to the river.

6.01.

She must wait some more.

For a man she did not want.


	10. Chapter 10

A deep voice resonated behind her.

With a lung filling breath she turned to face him.

"Ruth."

"Yes."

"This is for you."

She took the red rose he proffered in her frozen hands, hoping to god she didn't have to go through her petal burning antics once again.

"You don't have to destroy this one," he added.

She smiled at the man before her. In his sixties, he looked slightly down at heel and a little ragged around the edges. She supposed he had probably known better times.

The one thing, however, that she did know with great certainty, was that she had no idea who he was.

"And this is for you."

He handed her an envelope.

"Thank you," she said, and not for the first time within the space of a few minutes she watched a man walk away from her, leaving her perplexed and confused.

She slid her clumsy fingers through the paper, her hand apprehensive as she withdrew its contents.

It was no letter, no note, nothing that would give away its sender.

What she had clasped between her fingers was a ticket. A ticket for a place that stood just down river – The Royal Festival Hall.

It was dated 17th February.

And it began in just over an hour.

* * *

By the time she had returned to the grid; glanced into Harry's office to see him engrossed in a huge pile of paperwork; recommended her own intel for further action; made her excuses to leave early; and hurried back across the river with no sight nor sound of an available cab - it was 7.30.

As she scurried into the auditorium the lights were already dimming, the orchestra already in place. With many apologies and a fit of British good manners; with more 'sorries' than had ever been used since the last late arriver disturbed an entire row of happily seated audience members; with more juggling of coats, bags, gloves, programmes and bags of sweets (because god forbid they should be overcome with sugar deprivation in the next hour and a half); with all that palaver, Ruth managed to reach her seat without ever being able to catch sight of the one person who wasn't standing to make way for her.

When she did, she simply plonked down beside him, still painfully aware of the ripple of reajustments still reverberating down the rest of the row. In fact her emotions were rather waylaid by the rush of stress to actually get there, rather than the fact that she had finally discovered the sender of the rose.

She wrestled to remove her coat without elbowing the person to her right: she failed, not with the coat but with the elbowing and so she apologized again.

"It seems like an awful lot of trouble to go to just for Mahler," she hissed to her left, still flustered.

"I like Mahler."

"You could have just asked me, Harry."

"I thought you might say 'no'."

She sighed, folding her coat across her knee and for the first time looked at him.

"And if I hadn't worked out your rather longwinded invitation, then you would have been sat here on your own."

He gazed at her with soft, molten eyes.

"It was you, Ruth. There's nothing you can't work out."

The conductor strode onto the stage and the audience burst into applause.

"Except perhaps one thing," added the voice next to her.

Ruth began to ask him what that might possibly be but was 'sushed' by at least two, still unhappy neighbours.

She closed her mouth, took a deep breath to relax and let the music wash over her.


	11. Chapter 11

**Not sure whether this will be the last chapter. In case it is, many thanks for all the lovely reviews.**

* * *

Harry loved Mahler.

He also loved Ruth.

The two together was for him, a sublime moment.

He held out for as long as he could but eventually he succumbed to the temptation and casually rubbed the back of his neck with his left hand causing his head to turn slightly towards Ruth so that he could watch her out of the corner of his eye.

Her face was glorious: a mask of intense focus and yet relaxation. So lost was she in the music, she was oblivious of him and all around her.

He was glad of it, for it let him look all the more, until the muscles in his eyes groaned with straining.

And when the music finally stopped and the applause finally died away she turned to him with a full and guileless smile.

"Thank you, Harry. That was wonderful."

He nodded, not knowing quite what to say because he had been enraptured by that smile and by the openness which she seldom fully granted him but which he saw now.

Taking her coat, he held it out for her as she turned her back towards him, slipping her arms into the sleeves.

"Would you like to go for some dinner?" burred a soft, musky voice not far her left ear.

And suddenly she was back in reality.

Back from a land of strings and sonnets.

Back to Harry and her, seemingly on a date and all the dangers and embarrassment that that may cause.

She swallowed down the panic, glad that he could not see her face.

"That would be nice," she said, calmly, "Where?"

"I have somewhere in mind. It's not too far away."

She turned towards him and sadly he realized the look had gone, hidden away once more.

"Okay," she said, with a soft, yet nervous smile, "Then wither he goes, thither let me go."

And as she said it, she felt the heat rise in her cheeks.


	12. Chapter 12

**Okay, here's an epilogue. Not sure I like it, to be honest, but it finishes the whole thing off.**

* * *

They spent their starters talking of everything bar how they had finally managed to reach this point.

Music, work and the torments of the JIC were their escape route, whilst Shakespeare was a subject far removed since Ruth's earlier comment.

But as the main course arrived and Harry ordered another bottle of red their ease began to grow, warmed by the wine.

"What didn't I work out?" Ruth asked suddenly.

"I'm sorry?"

"You said there was nothing I couldn't work out. Just before the concert started. Except one thing."

"Ah," said Harry, with a small smile.

"So...what is it?"

"You want to know the one thing you've never fully understood?" he repeated.

"Of course I do."

"Are you sure, Ruth?"

"Yes!"

An exasperated Ruth, Harry concluded, was very attractive.

He gazed at her intently.

"You've never worked out how I feel about you, Ruth."

She stared at him, somewhat taken aback.

"How _very much_, I feel about you," he added, fixing her with a look comprising a considerable amount of smoulder.

"Oh," Ruth immediately began fiddling with her glass and refused to make any further eye contact. She was feeling rather heated again.

"Is that not something you wanted to hear?" he asked warily after several moments.

"No. No," she repeated, "it's just ... well, you're my boss, Harry."

"When we're at work. But we're not at work, Ruth," he flexed the fingers of his right hand which rested part way across the table. The movement made her look up.

"Are we?" he added softly.

And her fingers felt the invisible pull of his and before she had had time to weigh and consider the argument for and against, she found her hand edging towards his.

"No," she whispered, "we're not."

He smiled a soft, seductive, honeyed smile. And suddenly she found her fingers touching his, in the merest, most feather light of contacts.

"Did you suspect it was me?" he asked gently.

She shook her head and smiled. "No, I thought it was an old boyfriend, George. Or possibly Zaf and Adam in cahoots."

"Cahoots?" he repeated with a grin.

She nodded.

"Good word," he said.

"I thought so," she concurred, "But it was only an early guess … before Richard revealed himself. I soon discounted them as not romantic enough."

"So it was romantic?" he teased.

"I imagine romance was the intention?"

"My intent was to intrigue you, to woo you."

"Good word," she echoed.

"A little old fashioned?"

"A little."

"Woo you, as old fashioned as that may be, and yes, romance you. So that you couldn't say no."

"Say 'no' to what?" she asked, daring to hold his look.

"To me, Ruth. I didn't want you to say no to me."

"And what makes you think I would be so foolish as to possibly say that?"

His fingers played over hers.

"I would never call you foolish, Ruth."

"Then I'm never going to say no."

He smiled. "I might remind you of that."

"Feel free," she said, "but next time, Harry, just try asking me out, so I don't have to virtually set fire to my flowers."

"Next time?"

"Next time," she repeated with a shy, yet encouraging smile.

And for once Harry needed no more encouragement.


End file.
